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Hand-Held Shower Nozzles

Demon Enemy of the Patriarchy

We're in trouble, guys.

For thousands of years we've had the upper hand. And soon our power will slip through our fingers like...like...like a pulsating jet stream of hot, steamy water.

The danger is real. It's the greatest threat currently facing men and manhood and maleness and manliness and machismo and masculinity...and Guy Stuff in general.

What is this threat, you ask, growing somewhat impatient and ready to surf for more jpegs of naked Dutch chicks blowing farm animals?

It isn't feminism, because, well, feminism's ridiculous. No one takes that shit seriously anymore. It isn't lesbianism, because it's common knowledge that women can't get along with one another for very long. It's not even male brutishness, because that has flourished for eons, and the patriarchy has chugged along unhampered.

No, the threat is simpler. More pervasive. More seemingly innocent, and thus all the more sinister.

The threat to every American male lurks quietly in bathrooms from coast to coast. And that threat, my brothers, is the hand-held shower nozzle. That cocky, arrogant plumbing appliance. That evil, steely, praying mantis. That simple bathroom device, available at any K-Mart or Home Depot, will topple ten thousand years of male rule. That inanimate shower toy symbolizes feminine liberation. It betokens a rising gynocratic dictatorship. The ultimate, irrevocable downfall of male supremacy.

Good for her. Bad for you. Bad for all men.

Scared, fella? You should be. There is reason to be afraid.

Mention the topic of shower nozzles to a woman...any woman...and her lips will curl into a smile. Her eyes will assume a faraway look of forbidden love and giggly secrets.

She's a little more distant these days, isn't she? A little less eager to please, right? And still you wonder why it takes her that long to take a simple shower, you silly little fool.

She loudly slams the bathroom door shut. She rudely clicks the lock, shutting you out of her private aquatic self-pleasuring session. She defiantly strips naked and slinks into the shower. And there she stands, nozzle in hand, coldly mocking the patriarchy. She cranks up the faucets, spritzing herself 'tween the legs. The relentless downpour assaults her crotch like a mini Muff Monsoon. The nozzle gushes at full force, crop-dusting her nether regions. Battering her swee'pea like a boxer pummels a punching bag. Plastering her clit like an astronaut's rubbery cheeks in a G-force test. Pummeling her shiny li'l pencil eraser into pink liquid ecstasy.

Banished and abandoned, you sit outside the bathroom, jealously enduring the yelps and groans and grunts and war-whoops of insane pleasure, the sort of pleasure you never give her. The sort of pleasure you CAN'T give her.

You can't compete. There's no way. You're flat-out fucked. You don't understand her body like the shower nozzle does. No matter the size of your canoe, it's no match for Niagara Falls. Your organ may be able to thrust...on occasion, it might even throb...but alas, it cannot PULSATE, mon frere. Your tongue may be able to flick like a hummingbird's wings, but it cannot match the thousands of spurts-per-minute clocked by a high-tech nozzle. You say you can please your lady all night? The shower nozzle can please her until the city reservoir runs dry.

You have been replaced by a household item. With a mere twenty or thirty dollars, she buys herself lifelong satisfaction. She may need you to install it, but after that, you're history.

The penis is obsolete. Shower nozzles do not grow fat and bald. Shower nozzles never fail to achieve an erection. The hand-held shower nozzle is the horseless carriage of human sexual relations. And you, kind sir, are the sickly old horse, put out to pasture.

There is one small chink, however, in the shower nozzle's shining armor: A woman is unable to nag and torture a shower nozzle like she can a real live man. So one of her primary yearnings will go unfulfilled.